


Like You Came out of a Dream

by The Librarina (tears_of_nienna)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fishing, M/M, Mermaid Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/pseuds/The%20Librarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a body in Grantaire's fishing net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire is hauling in his catch and trying to ignore the pounding in his head when he realizes there's something tangled in the net.

It isn't unheard of--you wouldn't believe what kind of junk people toss overboard, and sometimes it ends up in his nets among the Atlantic salmon. He's never caught an old boot, though. Cartoons had led him to believe there would be a lot more of that sort of thing.

He bends over the net and sees a flash of pale skin, a bare shoulder, and-- _oh my god it's a body, there's a dead body in my fishing net, oh god oh god_.

He should just leave it and radio the police, or maybe the Coast Guard? He doesn't know who has jurisdiction over dead bodies off the Maine coast. But he pushes the net aside to get a closer look, because he should probably check for a pulse, just in case...

Grantaire freezes. Just at the base of his spine, the man's skin shifts to crimson scales, and--it's a _tail_. It's a tail and it's moving and the mermaid is _sitting up_ and--

And he's gorgeous. Honey-blond hair hanging in damp curls around his face, blue eyes, freckles at the tops of his shoulders. How does a mermaid get _freckles_ , anyway? He's not wearing anything except a necklace of cloudy blue and green sea-glass.

"What, no clam-shell bikini?" Grantaire asks, and then his legs give out beneath him and he sits down hard on a coil of rope. He rubs a hand over his face. "Oh my god, I have got to stop drinking."

Only then does he register that the mermaid is glaring at him with a ferocity thus far unknown in Grantaire's life. He feels like an ant frying under a magnifying glass--or maybe that's still the hangover.

He kneels down to untangle the mermaid, figuring it's only polite, but the mermaid just shrugs and the net slides from his arms. His tail brushes the deck irritably.

The mermaid finally opens his mouth, and says the last thing Grantaire would have expected. "Your operation isn't dolphin-safe."

"I beg your pardon?"

His eyes narrow further. "Do you know how many dolphins die every year as a result of bycatch?"

"I have some idea, yes. But I've never caught a dolphin in my nets."

"And simply because you never _have_ , of course that means you never _will_ ," he counters icily.

"Look, there aren't any dolphins in these waters at this time of year. It's too cold for them. And probably for you, come to that.”

"Your concern is unnecessary and unwelcome."

"Okay, fine." Grantaire takes a breath. "So, you're a mermaid. Merman?"

"Merling," he corrects.

"Right, sure. Gender-neutral, I like it. Mer-comrade. My name's Grantaire."

"I'm Enjolras."

"Enjolras. Okay." A French merling, or maybe a French-Canadian one. It's about as reasonable as anything else that's going on right now. "Let me get this straight. You tangled yourself in the net _on purpose_ , as a protest against dolphin cruelty."

"Yes," he says, like that makes sense.

"Are you...particularly fond of dolphins?"

Enjolras snorts. Maybe it sounds different underwater, but on the surface it's kind of a bubbly squeaky sound, and Grantaire finds it impossibly adorable. "Of course not. Dolphins are terrible, as a rule, but it doesn't mean they should be forced to suffer painful deaths."

"What about the salmon? I mean, you do realize that _they_ die, right?"

"They're fish, not mammals. There's a whole--it's _different_."

"You're half-fish."

" _No_ , I am not."

"You have scales."

He gives an irritated wave of his hand. "There are superficial similarities, yes, but the musculature of the tail is more akin to dolphins, and we're definitely mammalian. We're warm-blooded, first of all, and even our reproductive systems resemble huma--" He breaks off, and suddenly his face is nearly as red as his tail.

" _Really_ ," Grantaire says, grinning. "Fascinating."

He folds his arms across his chest, and Grantaire notes with rising hysteria that the merling has really nice arms. A swimmer's physique, of course.

"Are you going to make your nets dolphin-safe?" Enjolras asks.

"On the advice of a hallucinatory merling? Doubtful."

"I'm not a hallucination."

"Which is exactly what all my other hallucinations say."

He frowns.

"That was a joke. Mostly. Anyway, have you considered that using pingers on your nets basically chases dolphins away from their natural habitat--and the most plentiful food sources?"

"I accept that the standard methods are far from ideal, but they're infinitely preferable to dead dolphins."

"No argument there."

"So you'll fix the nets?"

"Sure, fine. If it'll stop the Mermaid Mafia from coming after me, leaving headless tuna in my bed, or whatever. Though I'd like to see you _get_ into my bed, what with the, you know..." It's Grantaire's turn to stop short, abruptly realizing that he had practically just propositioned a mythical being.

"We wouldn’t do that, even if we could. Tuna populations are in a dangerous decline, and anyway--we're not supposed to make ourselves known to humans at all."

"Yeah, I can understand the risk involved. What if I had decided that there was more profit in capturing a live merling than in salmon fishing?"

Enjolras produces a knife from--somewhere? Maybe he has pockets in his tail. The blade is black and translucent, and looks sharp enough to cut Grantaire's shadow from his heels.

"Obsidian," he says at last. "Nice."

"I'm glad I didn't have to use it. I didn't think you were that sort, but you can never be quite sure."

"What do you mean, you _didn't think I was that sort_? Have you been watching me?"

Enjolras just smiles, and the knife disappears behind his back. He hoists himself up over the rail, red scales sparkling in the sunlight. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Grantaire."

"Yeah, sure. You too."

And just like that, Enjolras is gone, over the side without the slightest splash to mark his dive. Grantaire hauls in the rest of the nets on autopilot and heads back to shore.

As soon as he docks the boat, he's going to drink until he can convince himself that this conversation never happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't make an _on porpoise_ joke. You're welcome.
> 
> Title from "The Stranger" by Lord Huron. The full line is _You came out of the ocean like you came out of a dream._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen [weisbrot](http://weisbrot.tumblr.com/)'s [amazing art](http://weisbrot.tumblr.com/tagged/lucky-catch) for this fic, you are _missing out_.  <3

Over he next few weeks, he nearly manages to convince himself that it never happened. It was a mirage brought on by dehydration and the sun on the water, that’s all. It’s much easier to believe that he's losing his grip on reality than to believe that mermaids--pardon, _merlings_ \--are real and handsome and extremely invested in dolphin welfare.

He puts pingers on the nets anyway, in case of stray dolphins. He wonders if his merling will ever notice. Unlikely, since he was a figment of Grantaire's fevered imagination, but he can't help wondering.

All things considered, he ought to be terrified when a hand appears on his port rail one morning and the boat shifts as someone climbs over the side. This is a solo operation, after all, and there aren't any other fishing boats in sight. But when he catches sight of the red tail, he can't help the giddy smile that spreads across his face.

Enjolras drops down to the deck, and Grantaire crosses over to him, trying to frown.

"Okay, dude, what the hell. These nets are dolphin-safe now. There's no way you could get caught in this thing unless you were _trying_ to--holy _shit_."

There's blood running near the merling's hip, just where the skin turns to scales. Grantaire drops to his knees. "Enjolras? Are you all right? What happened?"

"Shark," he says, glaring. Like this is an inconvenience instead of an emergency. "I’ll be all right. Once they realize you're not prey, they leave you alone, but the blood was attracting more sharks. I needed to get to the surface. I recognized your boat, and..." He shrugs.

Grantaire is strangely proud that Enjolras trusted him enough to come to him. Any port in a storm, and all that, but he'll take it.

"Okay," he says. "You just...stay here. I'm going to go get the first-aid kit."

Grantaire ducks into the cabin for the small, basic first-aid kit he keeps under the bunk. It's good for cuts and splinters and sunburn, but he doesn't really know what you're supposed to do in case of _shark bite_. He tucks the kit under his arm and dashes back out to the deck, where Enjolras is prodding at the bite mark with poorly concealed annoyance.

It doesn’t look as bad as it seemed at first. The marks aren’t so much puncture wounds as deep parallel scratches, like Enjolras was nearly out of range when the shark lunged. Grantaire sits down next to Enjolras and flips open the latch on the first-aid kit. He tears open a package of gauze dressing and hands it to Enjolras. “Hold that over the bleeding. Use pressure.”

Enjolras obediently presses the gauze to the cuts. His mouth tightens a little as he presses down. Grantaire is pretty sure there's some tape in here that will hold the bandage down, though it probably isn't rated for submersion.

"What kind of shark was it?" he asks idly.

"Great White," Enjolras says, entirely too calm. "A juvenile. Not large enough to do any real damage."

Grantaire estimates the span of the scratches on Enjolras' hip. "Unless it got a hand. Or your _throat_." The thought makes him dizzy, and he swallows roughly.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Enjolras says. "Does blood bother you?"

"Only when it's not mine," Grantaire replies wryly. “How did you get away from it?”

“I hit it on the nose.”

“You punched a shark in the _nose_?”

“It’s the most vulnerable part. And it was more of a chop than a punch—it’s a more efficient blow, underwater.”

"Of course it is. Move your hand for me."

Enjolras lifts the gauze pad away, and Grantaire can see that the bleeding has nearly stopped. He sprays disinfectant on the tooth-marks before Enjolras can protest.

His tail slaps the deck irritably. "That _hurt_."

"You were bitten by a shark. They're like the trash cans of the ocean. I'm just trying to make sure you don't get an infection."

"I'll be all right. As soon as the bleeding stops, I can let you get back to your work."

“You’re going to have a wicked scar, you know,” Grantaire says, changing the subject. “Like a manatee or something.” He frowns. “Not that you look like a manatee, or anything. Are manatees assholes, too? Like dolphins?”

“Oh, no. They’re wonderful. Not bright, but sweet-tempered. You have ones like them on land, too, I think.”

“Uh, no. We do not have land-manatees. I’m pretty sure I would have noticed those.”

“You do. You raise them like merlings do, for the milk that they give.”

“Oh, like cows.”

Enjolras brightens. “ _Yes_! Cows.”

How does a merling even know what a cow is? Maybe he’s seen them grazing somewhere near the coastline, or maybe merlings can swim up rivers and live in fresh water for a while.

Enjolras prods the edges of the largest scratch. It’s already stopped bleeding. “I should go,” he says.

"You don't have to. You can stay up here for as long as you..." He trails off. "How long _can_ you stay up here? Out of water, I mean."

"I don't know, really. I haven't tested it."

"No? Why not?" Enjolras doesn't strike him as the sort to leave anything unexplored.

"Because we're not supposed to stay on the surface. I told you before--humans can't find out about our existence."

Grantaire snorts. "Says the guy who staged a pro-dolphin protest by tangling himself in my nets."

"And you wouldn't believe the trouble I'd be in, if anyone else found out."

"Anyone else, like--other merlings?"

Enjolras nods. "You didn't think I was the only one, did you?"

Grantaire doesn't have an answer for that. Thinking about merling society would have just given him a headache. Is it a straight-up monarchy, Hans Christian Andersen style? With a king and an evil sea-witch...

"Don't get turned into seafoam on my account," Grantaire mutters.

Enjolras frowns at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. I just don't want you to get into trouble, that's all."

"I know. And that's why I can't come back again."

Grantaire jerks his head up to stare at him. "But—“

"I mean it. There's too much risk--for you, as well as for me."

" _Me_? How am I at risk?"

Enjolras gives him a gently pitying look. “Where do you think the tales about sirens come from?”

“Oh.” Grantaire would like to believe that he wouldn’t fall for that, but if it was Enjolras calling out to him, he’d run his boat aground at full speed. "It's a risk I'm willing to take," he says.

Enjolras smiles. "But I'm not. Nevertheless, I owe you--a favor at least, and possibly my life."

 _A kiss, then,_ he almost says. He shakes his head instead. "No way. You don't owe me anything."

"You had no reason to come to my aid, and yet you did."

"No reason? What, now I’ve got to have a _reason_ to help my friends?"

Enjolras just smiles and leans up to press a cool kiss to Grantaire’s cheekbone. “Thank you,” he says, and then he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Grantaire's boat rocks suddenly. The seas around him are calm, but the boat tips to starboard, like there's a sudden, slight weight there. Grantaire ducks around the cabin, his heart pounding in anticipation--

There's no one there. But draped over one of the cleats is a familiar sea-glass necklace, in shades of blue and green and cloudy gray.

It hurts to think that it's a good-bye, but he slips it around his neck anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm on tumblr as [thelibrarina](http://www.thelibrarina.tumblr.com/) Come say hi!


	3. Chapter 3

The storm comes out of nowhere.

It wasn’t predicted in any of the weather forecasts, and Grantaire knows because he checks them all before he ever leaves the dock. _Every_ fisherman does.

Hell, there wasn’t even a red sky this morning.

But here he is, a dozen miles off-shore, and the wind is kicking up a howl. The sky is a churning mass of dark clouds, moving in fast. The sea is so rough that it makes Grantaire feel faintly ill, unless that's the knot of nerves in his stomach. This is how fishermen die—alone at sea, unprepared for a storm.

At least there's no one at home who depends on him. He has friends, of course, and an epic running tab at the bar, but they’ll get on all right without him.

Of course, that’s not exactly _ideal_. He tucks himself into the tiny room that passes for a bridge on his boat, and he charts a course to the south-east. Fishing boats aren't made for speed, so he doesn't have a chance of outrunning the storm, but maybe he can run through it instead, and come out the other side. It’s not a good chance, but it’s the only one he’s got.

As soon as he steers into the storm, the waves turn even worse, tossing the boat like a toy. Grantaire struggles to keep his feet as the rain begins to pour down, obscuring the sea around him. He can scarcely see beyond the bow, but at least he’s dry.

From the bridge’s window, he watches a wave sweep one of his nets over the stern rail. It catches on a cleat, and Grantaire can just imagine the dangling net winding itself around the propeller, overheating it, leaving him dead in the water at the mercy of the storm—

He curses and throws open the door, rushing out onto the shifting deck towards the stern. He’s soaked in a heartbeat, even with his life vest and his rain gear, from the lashing rain and the waves crashing over the rails.

He pulls out his pocket knife to cut the net. The webbing is stretched taut, and it parts without much effort, spinning away into the sea. He turns to make his way back to the bridge.

That’s when it happens. A tremendous wave slaps the side of the boat, his hands slip on the rain-slick rail, and just like that he's over the side.

The shock of the water is brutal, colder even than the rain, and for a panicked moment Grantaire can't tell which way is up. He breaks the surface and draws a deep breath just as a wave crashes over his head, pushing him under again. He swallows a mouthful of salt water and kicks back up towards the surface. He’s lost sight of the boat already. He wonders if it will survive the storm, or if it will sink to the bottom and never be found.

Like him. In a trough between two swells, he takes a deep breath, treading water. He’s a good swimmer, he’s lived near the ocean all his life, but he’s miles away from the shore. Even if he could hold his compass steady enough to get a reading, he won’t have the strength to make it back.

He sees the next wave coming and holds his breath while it breaks over top of him, shoving him down beneath the surface like a bobbing cork. He fights his way back up, and he can breathe again.

Something grabs him, down under the water, and Grantaire kicks instinctively before he realizes that it’s a _hand_. In a flash of lightning, Grantaire sees his rescuer rise to the surface, blue eyes and long blond hair, close enough to kiss. He has just enough time to feel a surge of desperate hope.

Then Enjolras disappears beneath the waves, and the hands on Grantaire’s waist drag him down.

Panic steals half his breath in a stream of bubbles that rise towards the rapidly fading surface. _Where do you think the tales about sirens come from_? he hears Enjolras ask.

Grantaire shoves at him, twisting and fighting to get free. His lungs are already burning, his vision darkening from lack of air. He pushes at Enjolras again, but his struggles are weakening, and he knows that even if he gets free now, he’ll never reach the surface.

Enjolras’ hand tangles in Grantaire’s hair, holding him like a lover. His lips meet Grantaire’s in a cold kiss, and everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I am sorry about:
> 
>   * Not this.
>   * :)
> 



	4. Chapter 4

Sound is the first thing to return. He can hear water lapping gently against rocks, like the tiny waves on a lakeshore. And somewhere, the soft murmur of voices.

“—going to be trouble, you know—“

“—couldn’t just let him—“

“—know that, but still—“

The voices ebb and flow like a tide, fading in and out of hearing. He drifts off.

 

Memory is the next to return, in scraps and flashes like a nightmare. A sky full of boiling clouds, waves tossing the boat, the frozen shock of the water and then—

_Enjolras_. Dragging him down, kissing him while the world darkened and faded away.

On the heels of memory comes pain. He turns his head and retches up what feels like a gallon of seawater. The salt burns his throat and stings his cracked lips, and his body aches with protest at every heave.

When he thinks he’s finished, he lets his head fall back, and he finally opens his eyes.

Above him is the vaulted rock ceiling of a cave. A few stubby stalactites reach down towards him. And there’s a light coming from somewhere, a cave opening or a crack in the stone.

“Are you all right?” someone asks.

Grantaire turns his head—greater movements are still beyond him—to find a man treading water near the shore. His dark skin is damp, and Grantaire thinks he’s wearing blue trunks until he realizes it’s a tail.

“Uhh,” he replies. It’s the best he can do at the moment.

“There is water, if you’d like some.”

Grantaire would, but he’s not really in a state to drink it himself, and he’s not going to be nursemaided by a merling he doesn’t even know. He shakes his head minutely.

“Enjolras will be glad that you’re awake,” the merling says. “You rest here, and I’ll go and get him for you.”

Grantaire doesn’t particularly want to see Enjolras, considering the circumstances of their last meeting, but before he can string enough words together to protest, handsome Mr. Blue-Tail disappears beneath the surface, presumably to find Enjolras.

He needs to figure out where he is. He needs to find out how to get back home. But first he’s going to close his eyes, just for a moment...

He drifts dizzily in a space between dreaming and unconsciousness, until the faint sound of the waves changes slightly. He opens his eyes to see Enjolras sitting in the shallows, barely an arm’s length away. Siren or not, he’s still beautiful, and Grantaire’s indignation nearly falters.

“If you’re planning to drown me again, you shouldn’t have much trouble,” he says. The words come out hoarse, but intelligible.

Enjolras’ perfect brow creases into a frown. “Drown you? What are you talking about?”

“The part where I was trying to swim and you pulled me down under the water, never to see the surface again?”

“Of course I pulled you down. I had to get you below the waves, or we both would have been dashed on the nearest rock.”

Grantaire stares. _Below the waves_? “Did you forget that humans have a little trouble breathing underwater?”

“Not at all. I breathed for you.”

“You...what?”

“Our lungs are different from yours, and very efficient. You fainted almost immediately, but it was enough to keep you alive while I brought you here.”

Grantaire’s exhausted mind is still struggling to keep up with Enjolras’ explanation, which is nice because it keeps him from thinking about _how_ , exactly, Enjolras had been breathing for him. “But you breathe water, how do you—how does that even—?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and pushes a damp strand of hair back from his face. “If you want a lesson in merling physiology, I have a friend who would be happy to oblige you. For now, isn’t it enough to be alive?”

“I guess,” Grantaire mutters. “I mean...thanks, for saving me. And bringing me here.”

Enjolras nods stiffly.

“But where’s _here_ , exactly?”

“It’s a cavern. The entrance is underwater at all but the lowest tides. My friends and I use it to store human things that we find.”

“Uh-huh. So I’m just one of those ‘human things’ that you found?”

Enjolras’ smile is wry and not entirely happy. “I suppose so. I couldn’t carry you all the way back to shore, and my other options were...limited. I needed to find a safe place for you to recover.”

“Safe? Safe from what?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Sure.” Grantaire plants his palms in the damp sand and slowly pushes himself upright. Everything hurts—his muscles ache, his head is pounding, and his stomach is still uneasy. But he makes it.

As soon as he sits up, the blanket covering him falls down to his hips. Grantaire stares at it for a moment, feeling his skin prickle in the chill.

“Enjolras,” he says, very calmly. “Where are my clothes?”

“They were cold and wet. I know humans do not tolerate such a state well, so I removed them and took them up to the surface to dry.”

Right. So the hot, possibly-homicidal merling removed his clothing— _all_ of his clothing—while he was unconscious, and hung it out to dry on some kind of merling clothesline. The only thing he’s wearing now is Enjolras’ sea-glass necklace.

Suddenly self-conscious, Grantaire tucks the blanket firmly around his waist. “Okay, then—“

Two other merlings surface in the cavern—the blue-tailed guy from before, and a woman. She’s not wearing a clamshell bikini either, so Grantaire averts his eyes politely.

“Enjolras, your father is looking for you.”

He sighs. “Of course he is. Grantaire, this is Combeferre and Eponine. They’re friends of mine—you can trust them.”

Implying that there are some merlings that Grantaire _can’t_ trust. He offers the merlings a little wave. “Hi.”

Eponine gives him a nod, but the friendly smile on Combeferre’s face drops away like Grantaire slapped him. He turns to Enjolras. “Why is the human wearing your necklace?”

“Because I gave it to him,” he replies defensively.

“You told your father you lost it.”

Enjolras studies the surface of the water. “Perhaps I misspoke.”

“Just as you misspoke when you told him you hadn’t been interfering with humans?”

“He was _drowning_ , Combeferre. Should I have done nothing?”

He sighs, like this is an argument they’ve had before. “Of course not. But if your father finds out—“

“He _won’t_.”

“Then don’t give him any cause to be suspicious. Go see him now.”

Enjolras turns to Grantaire with a rueful smile. “We’ll be back soon. Rest for a while. There’s a cup of fresh water on the ledge. You should drink something—you’ll feel better.”

He’s going to need something a lot stronger than _water_ to feel better about this, but he nods. Then the three of them disappear under the surface, leaving Grantaire alone.

Well, _probably_ alone. Any number of merlings could be congregating just beneath the water, and he would never know.

The thought makes his neck prickle, so he stands up on shaky legs and drinks the water that Enjolras had left for him. It’s cool and tastes like rain and rocks, and despite his reservations, it _does_ help.

Enjolras had told him to rest. He’d like to, really. He curls up on the sand and closes his eyes, but his mind is racing too fast. Enjolras has merling friends. Enjolras’ dad won’t like that Enjolras has given his necklace to a human. Enjolras has a dad. Enjolras is _real_. It’s more than enough to occupy Grantaire’s mind.

He gives up on sleep and sits up to look around the cavern. Enjolras had said it was full of “human things,” and it is. Castoff things, shipwrecked things. There’s a freaking _cannon_ in a corner, covered in about two hundred years of barnacles.

“You want thingamabobs? I got twenty,” Grantaire mutters to himself. He ties the blanket firmly around his waist—just because merlings don’t seem to have a culture of modesty doesn’t mean he’s prepared to go along with it—and gets up to explore. Nobody pops up to the surface to tell him to stop, so he’ll just assume that permission is granted.

He trudges over to the cannon and explores the things tucked around it. There are a few coins Grantaire doesn’t recognize, a salt-worn derby hat, and half a gold-rimmed saucer whose cracked glaze says _–ite Star Line_.

On one shelf is a metal case full of MREs that don’t even seem to be expired. Grantaire sits down and tears into one, suddenly ravenous. It’s not the best meal he’s ever had, but it’ll do.

The cave is getting dimmer, which must mean that the sun is setting outside. Enjolras had said that the cave entrance was underwater except at the lowest tide. That would be a spring tide, and unless he’s been unconscious a lot longer than he thinks, the next time the cave entrance will be clear is almost two weeks away.

By then, everyone he knows will have given him up for dead. He could ask Enjolras to take him back now, even though the method is embarrassing, to say the least. And it’s probably not great to deprive yourself of oxygen too frequently—it’s not like he has a lot of brain cells to spare.

Maybe he could swim back, and Enjolras could carry him when he needs a rest. But once he gets back to the shore, Grantaire will probably never see him again, and then he’ll be stuck there, a fisherman without a boat. Why rush back to that?

It’s nearly dark when Enjolras returns, this time with a bundle clutched in his arms. It turns out to be a piece of oilcloth, folded tightly around Grantaire’s dry clothes.

Dignity, at this point, is kind of moot, so Grantaire just drops the blanket and pulls on his clothes again. Enjolras picks up a dented Zippo and uses it to light an oil lamp that sits on an out-thrust rock. The light shifts and glimmers on the sand, the surface of the water, the scales of Enjolras’ tail.

Feeling somewhat more like himself, Grantaire sits back down on the sand, his legs folded beneath him. “So what’s the big deal with the necklace?”

Enjolras waves a hand. “It’s not important.”

“It’s important enough for you to lie to your dad about it, apparently.”

“He noticed it was gone. I told him I lost it. He...wouldn’t have approved, if he knew I had given it to you.”

“Right, because you’re not supposed to be hanging out with humans.”                    

“I’m afraid there’s more to it than that.” Enjolras’ tail skims the surface in a figure eight, like a nervous habit. He realizes he’s doing it, and then he stops and swims forward, so that he can sit on the sand beside Grantaire. This close, he can see the water beaded on Enjolras’ skin. His eyes fall to the faint scars near his hipbone, and he catches sight of a belt made of braided fishing line, almost invisible. That must be where the knife had come from...

Enjolras sighs. “My father is the ruler of this part of the ocean.”

“He’s—what, the Merling King?”

“ _A_ merling king,” Enjolras corrects. “There are several different rulers.”

“And that makes you...”

“A prince, yes. His only child, and her heir. My mother was—suffice it to say that she had a more forgiving attitude towards humans, and my father is convinced that it killed her.”

“Did it?”

“Probably. After she disappeared, my father forbade all contact with humans, and there are those who wouldn’t hesitate to harm one, should the opportunity arise. But the necklace is mine, and easily recognized, so I hoped that it might serve as some protection.”

“You mean if some other merling had found me, instead of you.”

Enjolras nods. “If they saw the necklace, they would know that you were not to be harmed.”

“Oh. Then I guess I should thank you. For the necklace, and for saving me.”

“I couldn’t have let you drown,” Enjolras says, even though he definitely _could_ have. It would have been very easy. “The cave is safe, for now, but we will have to figure out how to get you back to the shore.”

“Don’t hurry, or anything. I’m not missing much.”

Enjolras smiles. “That may be, but staying here too long...might not be safe for either of us. I will visit you whenever I can. If I cannot come myself, I will send some of my friends to look in on you. If you need anything at all, just ask them. I trust them with my life.”

Grantaire nods. Enjolras hesitates, on the verge of saying something else. Instead, he just offers a vague smile and dives down beneath the waves. A flash of red tail is all that Grantaire sees, and then he’s gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took a little longer than expected. I'm sorry about that. It was supposed to be a one-off, and then this whole mythology developed, and it took a long time to make it all feel cohesive. Thanks for reading. The rest of the story is _actually written_ this time, so I'm planning to edit and upload the chapters ASAP.


	5. Chapter 5

He sleeps for a while. There’s no telling how long, but when he wakes there’s more light in the cave again, and he’s hungry. He eats another of the MREs for breakfast and is trying to decide if dunking his head in salt water is going to make his hair _worse_ or _better_ when two new merlings surface in the cave.

Grantaire’s heart pounds for a moment before settling again. Enjolras said that no one knows about the cave except the people he trusts, so it follows that these are trustworthy merlings. They’re a study in opposites, one bald and thin, the other broad-shouldered and with a head of coarse, reddish-brown hair. The red-haired one swims slowly up to the shallows.

“Hello.”

“Um, hi,” Grantaire says.

“Hi. Wow. So you’re really...you, huh?”

“I guess I am.”

The merling heaves himself out of the water, curled awkwardly in the shallows. His jet-black tail is different from the others, stiff and slightly crooked. A woven strap is slung over one shoulder like a bandolier, and something is strapped on his back.

“I’m Joly, and this is Bossuet,” he says, waving to the bald merling. “We wanted to see Enjolras’ pet human.”

Grantaire frowns, hurt. “Is that what he calls me?”

Bossuet shakes his head. “No, but we’ve been teasing him about you for a while now. He was forever swimming up to the surface to look for you, and he even had one of the little ones keeping an eye out when he was called away.”

Grantaire wonders how often Enjolras had been there, just below the surface, while he was throwing out his nets and hauling them in. It’s endearing instead of creepy, which is just another sign of how far gone he is.

Bossuet swims up to join Joly, who reaches down to rub at the twisted portion of his tail.

“Are you all right?” Grantaire blurts.

Joly waves a hand airily. “Oh—the tail? Don’t worry, it’s always been that way. I _can_ swim, after a fashion, and the flippers help, but when speed is of the essence, I hold on to Bossuet’s shoulder,” he explains. He unstraps the flippers to show them to Grantaire.

They’re a wonder of work, made from scuba flippers disassembled and stitched back together. They strap on to Joly’s forearms, and Grantaire can see how helpful they could be. He doesn’t think anyone on the surface could do much better.

“Did Enjolras send you to check up on me?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Bossuet says. “We were in the area already, and we thought we would say hello. Enjolras said you have questions about merling physiology, and Joly here can tell you more than you ever want to know.”

“Really?”

Joly nods. “I’ve made a study. And I have questions for you, too, if you’re willing.”

“Of course. And...well, I _was_ wondering,” Grantaire begins, but then Bossuet yelps as something yanks him down under the water. Grantaire jumps up, ready to dive in after him—can merlings drown?—but Bossuet surfaces again after a few seconds, shaking water from his nonexistent hair, and he’s not alone.

A woman surfaces beside him, water dripping from the tight curls of her hair.

“This is Musichetta,” Joly says, looking at her with a kind of adoration that Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.

When she smiles at Grantaire, he sort of understands Joly’s fascination. “Hello.”

“Hi. I’m Grantaire.”

“A pleasure. But if you will excuse us, I need to borrow your new friends for a bit.”

“Oh, sure. Go ahead—I don’t want to keep anyone.”

Joly turns to Grantaire. “If you need anything, we’ll be just below the surface. Toss something into the water and you’ll get our attention.”

Bossuet clears his throat. “Try not to need anything. For an hour or so,” he says delicately.

“Ah. Don’t worry about me,” Grantaire says, and the three of the cheerfully disappear beneath the waves.

There’s one ‘physiology’ question answered, he supposes. Merling sex lives are as varied as humans’.

Things are quiet for a while, and Grantaire is starting to feel the first vague stirrings of boredom when Enjolras surfaces in the cave.

Grantaire jumps to his feet, a smile already tugging at the corners of his mouth. Then more merlings pop out of the water around him, familiar faces and unfamiliar ones, until there are nearly a dozen treading water in the cavern.

“Hi,” Grantaire says blankly.

Enjolras smiles. “These are my friends. We often come here to talk. No one can overhear us when we speak on the surface.”

“Overhear you? Are you plotting treason or something?”

His smile turns sharp and rueful, and then turns his back to face the others. Grantaire can see the obsidian dagger strapped to the small of Enjolras’ back. The sheath looks like shark-skin, and Grantaire idly hopes it belonged to the shark that bit Enjolras.

Introductions are made, so quickly that Grantaire almost immediately loses track of who is who. Combeferre and Eponine he remembers, and Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta, but there’s also a Courfeyrac and a Feuilly and he _thinks_ the one with the long red hair has another J-name...

They draw together in the center of the cavern, but the arched ceiling means that Grantaire can hear every word. Enjolras takes a deep breath.

“Matters with my father have gotten worse. His isolationism and his stubbornness will lead to our ruin if nothing is done. We cannot afford to be complacent while the seas are warming and the coral is dying. Someone has to speak to the humans. We must convince them to change their ways while there is still time.”

“What are you going to do?” Combeferre asks.

“I will go to the Deeps, and ask the Witch for aid.”

A dozen merlings begin talking at once, their voices tripping over one another as they echo through the cavern.

“What?”

“—not the Witch—“

“—too dangerous—“

But despite the commotion, Grantaire is still stuck on the last words of Enjolras’ sentence. He scrambles to his feet and then wades out into the shallows, the water lapping at his ankles. “Wait a second,” he demands, raising his voice above the din. “You want to talk to humans? You’ve got a human right here! What do you want to tell us?”

Enjolras looks up at him, sharp-eyed, and Grantaire can only think of angels. Not the sweet-faced cherubim, or even the handsome archangels, but the angels of terrifying power, with six wings and blazing with holy flame. He has never seemed more beautiful, or less human. “You are _destroying_ the ocean,” he says, and his voice rolls and echoes like the tide. “The humans must be made aware of it. With your help, perhaps I can make them listen to me.”

“Make them—make them _listen_ to you? What, you’re going to wiggle into freaking Congress and say, ‘Hi, I’m a mermaid, please stop destroying my home’?”

“ _Merling_. And I would need your voice to support me, of course. I understand that I am asking a great deal of you, but—“

“Oh, I’m not complaining about _that_. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if you want, but it won’t matter.”

“Excuse me?”

“We already know we’re destroying the ocean—hell, we’re fucking up the land parts, too. And we don’t _care_. I mean, individuals care. But individuals can’t offset the byproducts of industry. The human capacity for denial is infinite. People know that smoking kills them, but they start anyway. They know that in fifty years, the rising seas will swallow up half the coastal cities in the world. But they _won’t change_. And if we won’t change for our own sake, we’re certainly not going to change for yours.”

“And that means I should not try?”

“...Yes, it _absolutely_ means that. Hell, hang in there for a couple of decades, and you can move right into a nice condo in Miami.”

The anger on Enjolras’ face has been replaced with tight-lipped disappointment. “Never mind, then,” he says coldly. “There will be other ways.”

The meeting breaks up shortly thereafter, and Enjolras doesn’t even look in his direction before vanishing under the surface. A few of the others stay, though, and Grantaire winds up spending an hour or more cataloging things in the cavern with Combeferre and Feuilly. It’s hard to explain lightbulbs and GoPros to people who have no experience with electricity, but he does his best.

 

The next morning brings no sign of Enjolras, either, but his ‘babysitter’ for the day turns out to be the Ariel-looking guy with the long red hair and green tail, whose name is Jehan.

“How angry is Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, looking down at the sand.

Jehan waves a hand. “Oh, he’s not angry. At least, he isn’t angry with _you_. It might seem that way, but he’s really angry at _himself_ , for not considering that humans might not be happy to hear from us. He’s been brooding all morning.”

“Brooding?”

“Mm-hm. Lots of frowning and swimming in circles.” Jehan squeezes water out of his hair and pushes it back over his shoulder, where the ends trail loosely in the water.

“Your hair is amazing.”

Jehan grins. “Oh, thank you. Everyone says I should cut it, so it stops getting tangled on things, but I do like it so.”

“Have you tried braiding it?”

“Yes, but it always comes undone when I do it.”

Grantaire grins. “Come here. Let’s see what we can do about that.” He knows twenty or more knots, just off the top of his head, and once—long ago—he had braided his little sister’s hair for her.

But he’d rather not think about that right now.

It takes them a moment to find a convenient position, with Jehan perched on a rock in the shallows, and Grantaire sitting on the sand behind him. He gathers up the locks of Jehan’s hair and combs through the damp tangles, wondering if there’s a dinglehopper somewhere.

“So, the witch that Enjolras was talking about. What’s her deal?”

“You mean the Witch of the Waves?”

Grantaire wrinkles his nose and separates Jehan’s hair into sections. “Is that what she calls herself? Kind of pretentious, huh?”

Jehan shrugs. “I suppose.”

“But she’s really a witch? She can do—magic, and everything? Like sinking a ship, or turning merlings into people or whatever?”

“That’s what she claims. I’ve never seen it—though of course, if she changed one of us to a human, we _wouldn’t_ see them anymore, would we?”

“Could she do it the other way? Turn a human into a merling?”

“I suppose so. But the price would be high.”

Grantaire ties off Jehan’s French braid with a piece of yarn from the frayed hem of his sweater. “How high?”

Jehan turns around, flipping his braid over his shoulder with evident pleasure. “Thanks, Grantaire. The Witch always demands something in trade for her magic. Sometimes it’s a year of your life, or all of your memories from when you were seven. She might tell you that you have to serve her for one month of the year, for your whole life. Every price is different, but she won’t make a bargain unless she thinks it’s worth her while.”

“I see.” Grantaire weighs his options. Enjolras’ plan is a fool’s errand, but Grantaire will never convince him of that. His damnable faith in human society will get him killed, or locked away in some laboratory while scientists and game fishers hunt down the rest of his kind. And Grantaire would still stand beside him, even at the very end.

He takes a deep breath and looks up at Jehan. “I need a favor.”


	6. Chapter 6

All things considered, Grantaire thinks he should be forgiven for expecting a purple octopus. But the Witch of the Waves looks like any other merling, except that she’s wearing a tunic of shark teeth and crocodile skin.

Her presence is stark and alien in the cavern, which had begun to feel almost like a sanctuary for Grantaire. But he was the one who called her here, so he rises from the sand and dips his head in a bow.

She regards him with cool solemnity. “I am told you are seeking me. What would you have from the Witch of the Waves?”

Grantaire suppresses a half-hysterical laugh, wondering for the hundredth time how this can really be happening to him. “Hello,” he says. “I would like you to turn me into a merling, please.”

“You would forsake your life on the surface?”

“If you knew what my life was like, you’d understand. But—yes, I would.”

“Such magic cannot be had for the asking,” she says. “All things have a price. There must be an exchange.”

Here’s the hard part. Jehan had given him some idea of what the Witch might ask of him—and told him to think carefully about whether the price would be worth it.

_Bossuet went to the Witch once, years ago. He asked her to heal Joly’s tail—it pains him, you know, though he doesn’t like to speak of it. The price she demanded was that Bossuet could never again touch Joly, or their lives would be forfeit. He nearly agreed, too—but Joly found out, and he told Bossuet that he would endure any pain rather than lose him like that._

As cautionary tales go, it’s an effective one. Grantaire takes a deep breath. “I understand that there is a cost. But I was shipwrecked—I don’t have much.”

Her smile glitters like stars, cold and distant. “Then you are not overburdened with choices, are you?”

“Voices are traditional, right? You can have mine, if you want. It’s always getting me in trouble anyway.”

“If you place so little value upon it, it is not worthy of the sacrifice.”

Well, that’s all right. He’d probably be better off if he learned to shut up, but he’d still rather keep his voice. He tries to think of other intangible things, something that the witch might deem worthy.

“I could give you my favorite memory.” The first day he climbed aboard his own boat and set out to sea, the wind and the sun and the gleaming salt spray...

“Not enough. Not for the kind of magic you seek.” Her gaze flickers down to his chest, and then away. Grantaire nearly makes a quip about not being that kind of guy, but then he remembers the necklace.

He lifts a hand to touch the jagged, polished beads. Enjolras said it wasn’t important, and it’s only glass, but it _was_ a gift, and maybe there’s power in that. He pulls it over his head and holds it out. “What about this? It was a gift.”

“Freely given?”

“Yes.”

“And do you give it freely to me?”

“Um...I guess so.” Her words are slow and formal, like a ritual, but Grantaire stumbles over his words, aware of the enormity of his request. “If you’ll make me a merling. Permanently. A male one,” he specifies.

She pauses for a long moment, and then she nods. “Agreed.” She holds out a hand, and Grantaire drops the necklace into her palm. Her eyes light with something greedy and cruel, and then her hand closes around the necklace. She thrusts her other hand in his direction, fingers clawed and grasping.

Grantaire falls back onto the sand with a strangled cry. White-hot pain radiates up and down his spine, and he curls into himself, seeking the faintest hint of relief. Maybe this is the witch’s true price, a pain that will drive him to madness—

He comes back to himself in an empty cave, glowing golden-red with morning light. The witch is gone, as though she had never been here, and the sand is swept away in arcs and eddies where Grantaire’s tail had lashed against the ground.

He’d been hoping for something bright, like Enjolras’ crimson or Combeferre’s shimmering blue tail. Instead, his tail is a disappointingly olive shade of green.

His _tail_.

He has a tail. He wiggles a little, and his tail splashes at the edge of the water. He can feel the cool water running over his fins. He’d been worried, just a little, that having a tail would feel like someone had tied his legs together, but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels _natural_ , like it’s always been there.

He slides into the water, which doesn’t feel cold anymore. When he ducks his head beneath the surface, he can see all around him, much better than any human could. He surfaces again and treads water easily, his tail keeping him upright. A bright, giddy smile spreads across his face.

He can’t _wait_ for Enjolras to see.

 

 

Morning steadily brightens into day, and then early afternoon. Grantaire has developed a small, slightly embarrassing problem.

He can’t make himself breathe underwater.

He’s been swimming in little circles around the cavern, loving the smooth, almost effortless way he can move through the water, but every time he ducks his head underwater, he instinctively holds his breath. He can’t _help_ it. His body might be a merling, but there’s something resolutely human about his brain that says breathing water = bad.

He can’t do this on his own—he’ll need help.

Fortunately, that’s when Bossuet surfaces in the cavern, with Joly holding on to his shoulder. Grantaire straightens up, hoping somehow to make a good impression. “Hi,” he says.

Bossuet pulls up short. “Whoa. What did you do?”

“I...made a bargain.”

Joly swims around Bossuet to see what they’re talking about, and his face splits into a bright grin. “Oh, _wow_. So you’re staying?”

Grantaire nods. “If you’ll have me.”

“Of _course_ we’ll have you!” Bossuet swims forward to lock Grantaire in an embrace, and Joly does the same from behind him. They sink down beneath the surface without a thought, but Grantaire’s brain flares panic after a moment and he breaks away, shooting up to the surface with a few powerful strokes of his tail.

Bossuet and Joly surface after a few seconds. “Are you all right?” Joly asks.

It’s the same thing Grantaire asked Joly at the start, and it reminds him of Jehan’s story about Bossuet, and Joly’s tail. They would know better than most about the Witch’s magic, so he has no reason to feel ashamed around them.

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “I can’t get myself to breathe underwater. It’s some kind of instinct. Bossuet, can you just...drag me down so that I have to?”

Bossuet wrinkles his nose. “You’re asking me to drown you?”

“Kind of. Just a little, though. I think once I know I can do it, the reflex will go away.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“No, but I don’t know any other way to—”

Bossuet grabs him mid-sentence, and before Grantaire can take a breath he’s pulled under, down and down and down. He yanks at Bossuet in increasing panic, but Bossuet won’t budge. Joly follows them down.

When he looks up, the surface is so far away that even if he could get free, he’ll never make it there.

He asked for this. He _asked_ for it, this is what he needs, but all he can think about is the storm, sinking deeper beneath the waves. His chest aches with desperation to breathe, and his vision is clouding and wavering at the edges, going dark...

He can’t stop himself anymore. He opens his mouth and breathes in, expecting to choke on a lungful of water—

And nothing happens. It feels like breathing air, cool and easy. Instinctive. He exhales, and a stream of bubbles sighs out of his mouth.

“This is _so cool_ ,” he says. And he can hear himself, his voice practically normal despite being underwater.

Bossuet and Joly grin at him.

“Thank you,” Grantaire says. “I needed that.”

“No problem. But I think I’ve established that ‘siren’ is not a career choice for me. That was weird.”

“Agreed,” Grantaire says firmly. “Never again.”

They spend an hour or more swimming together. Joly explains the muscular structure of his new tail in intricate detail, as well as the more...personal aspects, and Bossuet teaches him how to use his tail to best effect, for speed and maneuverability and balance.

Grantaire is exhilarated and exhausted by the time they take their leave.

“We’ll go, for now,” Joly says. “I figure you probably don’t want an audience when Enjolras sees you.”

Is his crush _that_ painfully obvious? He can’t bring himself to care. “I’ll see you later, though, right?”

“Of course,” Bossuet says cheerfully. “Any time you like.”

 

 

Grantaire swims laps in the cavern for a while after that, never quite daring to go beyond the entrance. It would probably be all right now—after all, he isn’t a human anymore—but he would also be instantly lost, and he doesn’t know anything about merling laws or culture. He’d probably get himself into terrible trouble in a matter of minutes.

The surface of the water above him is dimming towards evening when Grantaire catches sight of someone swimming towards the cavern entrance. He’s never seen Enjolras swim before, not underwater like this. His whole body makes a powerful, sinuous curve, and it’s so beautiful he almost forgets why he’s waiting.

Just as he enters the cave, Enjolras catches sight of him, and he pulls up short in the water. “Grantaire?”

He grins. “Hi.”

Enjolras looks him up and down, from the fins of his tail to his face and back again. “I—is this a dream?”

“Nope.” Grantaire flicks his tail—his _tail_ , this is so weird—and tries to gauge Enjolras’ reaction.

“How—how did you--?” He reaches out for Grantaire, but then the half-smile on his face fades, and he lets his arms fall. “You went to the Witch.”

“Yes. Well, she came to me, but yeah.”

The smile is completely gone now. Enjolras’ eyes are fierce and wide as he reaches out again, and his hands curl around Grantaire’s arms. “What did you give her?”

“I—what?”

“The Witch doesn’t do _anything_ for free. She always takes something. An eye, a year of your life, your memories. Something she thinks is worth the bargain. What did you give her, Grantaire?”

“The necklace,” he snaps, pulling away. “I gave her the damned necklace, that’s all.”

Enjolras lets his hands fall. “You gave her the necklace.”

“Yes. I know it was a gift, and regifting is tacky, but it was all I had, and I thought—what’s wrong?”

Enjolras’ face is doing...something. Grantaire can’t quite read the expression there. “The necklace. You—you gave her the necklace that I gave you.”

“You gave it to me for protection, right? Because I was human? I figured once I was a merling, I wouldn’t need protection anymore.”

Far from being reassured by the logic, Enjolras is only getting more tense. He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Salt and stone, Grantaire, do you know what this means? Do you have _any idea_ what you’ve done?”

Frustration wells up in Grantaire. He had thought Enjolras would be pleased, and instead he finds himself being scolded like a child. “ _No_ , Enjolras, I don’t, because you won’t tell me anything! You never said the necklace was important. You said it _didn’t matter_. I thought I was getting the better end of the deal.”

“Of course you did—because she wanted you to think that. She manipulated you. It’s all about power to her, and now that she has the necklace...” He shakes his head, and the anger seems to flicker and burn out of him, leaving a hollow despair behind. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault, it’s mine. I should have told you everything at the start.”

Grantaire nods slowly. “Okay. So...why don’t you tell me now? Then we can figure out how to fix this.”

The look on his face says there isn’t any way to fix this, but he nods anyway. He catches Grantaire’s wrist and tugs him up towards the surface, where they can talk without anyone overhearing. Grantaire hauls himself up onto a rock and waits while Enjolras swims in frustrated, adorable circles.

Finally, he stops circling and takes a breath. “The necklace was a gift from my mother to my father, long ago. It’s a symbol worn by the heir, meant to be given as a sign of favor—as a betrothal.”

“A _betrothal_? You got us betrothed and didn’t tell me?”

“Of course not. I had already decided that I would not marry, so I gave the necklace to you. Because you were a human, it wouldn’t be binding. But now the Witch has it. She could show up in my father’s court tomorrow and demand that we be married immediately.”

“But you’re not the one who gave it to her—doesn’t that matter?”

Enjolras purses his lips. “I doubt it. If I try to explain the circumstances, I’ll be forced to admit that I was...interfering with humans. Again. And undoubtedly, if she is consulted on the matter, the Witch would mention that you are the human that she changed. I’m not willing to risk you being punished for my foolishness.”

“What are we going to do?”

“ _You_ are going to do nothing,” Enjolras says flatly. “I’ve already gotten you into enough trouble. Stay here—in the cave or close by it—and I’ll think of something.”

“Do we have time to think of something? What if she’s already on her way to your father’s court?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I don’t think she’ll do that. She’s very proud. She’ll wait a day or two, to see if I’ll come to her, begging. She would like nothing better than to look me in the eye and laugh while she tells me no.”

“Don’t go, then. Don’t give her that satisfaction.”

Enjolras nods, but he doesn’t look at Grantaire. His mind is already leagues and leagues away, forming plans and discarding them just as fast. “I need to go,” he says. “Not to the Witch, but—my father will be expecting me.”

He turns away, ready to dive, and Grantaire is speaking before he realizes it.

“Enjolras—”

He turns back, treading water.

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No. _I_ am sorry. If I had been honest with you from the first, you would have known what the necklace meant. I tried to protect you, because I—” He breaks off. “I tried to protect you, but I should have respected you instead, and told you everything.”

“It’ll be all right,” Grantaire says, because he has to say something, but he can see the doubt in Enjolras’ eyes. It’s the last thing he sees before Enjolras slips beneath the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy MerMay, everyone. One more part to go...


	7. Chapter 7

It’s Grantaire’s fault. Enjolras can deny it all he wants, but he knows the truth. He was the one who sought out the Witch; he was the one who made the bargain. So he has to be the one to fix it.

Enjolras had told him to stay in the cavern, but Enjolras had also told him that the necklace wasn’t important. Who knows what the truth is, anymore? Bottom line: Grantaire needs to do this, so to hell with the rules.

He swims down, beneath the stony opening of the cave. He keeps away from the surface, for fear of being noticed by a sailor or—heaven forbid—a search party. That’s when he realizes he has no idea where to look.

Enjolras had said that the Witch comes from the Deeps, but from where Grantaire is swimming, _everything_ looks pretty deep. Still, “down” is a direction here, so he starts moving that way.

He can feel the different currents now, the brush of cooler water against his face as he swims. He follows it down, past the depths where any human diver would have turned back. He doesn’t feel the pressure like he would have before, and he suspects that he can see more, too. He’s glad, suddenly, that merlings don’t use creepy angler-fish lights to see.

When he first begins to see the light, he thinks it’s an illusion—a reflection from the surface, or his eyes playing tricks on him in the dimness. But as he presses on, the light grows clearer and resolves itself into a throng of tiny, bioluminescent jellies, a bright cloud of cold blue light.

Grantaire reaches out to touch one of the them, bracing for a sting, but the tiny jellies part around his hand. He swims forward, and they make way for him, falling to either side like a curtain. On the other side, he finds himself in a dead coral-reef garden, surrounded by ghostly, grasping skeletons of bleached coral.

Lounging in the center of the garden, on the scraped-clean shell of a giant clam, is the Witch. Here in her sanctuary, she has forgone her armor—or perhaps she simply doesn’t need it, now that she has the necklace. It hangs at her throat like a trophy. She smiles when she sees Grantaire, and he suddenly wishes he had thought to bring a weapon.

“Why, hello,” she says. “What brings you to the Deeps tonight, my dear?”

Her voice curls around him like a physical thing, as thick as smoke. Grantaire braces himself. “I want to undo the spell.”

“Ah. Did your lovely merling found out what you paid to become like him?”

“Does it matter? I changed my mind.”

She rises from her throne to approach him. “You expect the exchange to be unmade, then? That I would give you the necklace in return for making you human again? Then you would gain your desire twice over, and I would be left with nothing.”

“I—” That’s _exactly_ what he was hoping for, but deep down he’d known it couldn’t be that easy.

“Magic does not work that way. To _unmake_ is a spell of its own, with a cost as heavy as the first.”

“I just want the necklace back,” Grantaire says. “That’s all. Name your price, and I’ll pay it.”

“And if I asked you to bring me the heart of your beloved prince? Or one of his friends—then you could choose from among them. Perhaps the boy with the lovely red hair, the only one bold enough to approach me.”

“ _No_ —“ Grantaire says, and his tail flicks out, pushing him away from her. “The price should come from me. I won’t hurt anyone else.”

“It makes no difference. The necklace is not on offer.”

“There must be _something_ I can give you. Something—something worth more than the necklace. My life?”

“You can give me nothing that would be more pleasing to me than to possess this necklace and all that it means. Go now, while I still have a mind to let you.”

At a loss, Grantaire turns away, but the glowing jellies around them billow and twist, alerting their mistress to someone’s approach.

Grantaire knows who it will be before the intruder swims close enough to see his long blond hair, shining in the strange light.

The jellies part to let him pass, and he swims through. Enjolras is as empty-handed as Grantaire, as though he knows that there is nothing the witch would trade for her triumph.

But when he catches sight of Grantaire, he falters. “What are you doing here?” Enjolras demands.

“Trying to fix what I broke, that’s all.”

The Witch laughs. “Ah, my intended! Such a surprise—an honor, yes, but a surprise. Did you come for your merling friend, or for this?” She traces a fingertip over the sea-glass beads of Enjolras’ necklace.

“Return the necklace,” Enjolras says calmly. “To Grantaire or to me; it does not matter. But you will return it.”

She laughs. “And how do you propose to take it? By force, by violence? No—I have waited too long for this. You will not stop me.”

“Won’t I?”

She eyes him contemptuously. “You think you are a match for my magic? You think that you could kill me? Foolish princeling. If I die, the spell dies with me. We are eighty fathoms deep—even if the pressure does not crush his human lungs instantly, he would never make it to the surface.”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Grantaire says. “I told you, you can have my life if you give the necklace back.”

“Don’t say that,” Enjolras snaps fiercely, but the Witch flicks a dismissive hand at Grantaire.

“You made your bargain. Now I will bargain with the prince.”

Enjolras straightens and swims closer, and a veneer of calm settles over his seething anger. “I wish for the return of my necklace,” he says formally. “What terms would you set?”

“There will be no bargain for the necklace. You will marry me, and we will rule side by side. Promise me that, and I will allow this one to live.”

Grantaire startles as the tiny blue jellies swarm around him, imprisoning him. His shoulder brushes against one, and a shock of pure fire runs through him like a current. If the Witch gives the command, if they all sting him at once—the pain alone might kill him, even if the jellies themselves aren't toxic.

He never meant to become a hostage. Perhaps she had planned this from the start, from the moment she surfaced in the cavern. He should have known better—he should have known all along. He raises his head to call out.

“Enjolras, don’t bargain with her. I don’t care what happens to me.”

He shakes his head. “I won't risk it. I’d rather have you alive, even if it means...” He draws in a deep breath, and his face settles into resignation. “Very well,” he says to the Witch. “I—“

“Wait,” Grantaire pleads. “Just once, can I--?” He reaches forward, and at a gesture from the Witch, the jellies let him pass. Grantaire darts forward and wraps his arms around Enjolras.

Their mouths find each other easily, lips already parted. Enjolras’ hands rise to frame Grantaire’s face and slide into the curls of his hair.

Grantaire learns several things about merling physiology in a matter of seconds, and it’s a shame he'll never have a chance to learn more.

He lets one hand fall to the small of Enjolras’ back, to the handle of the dagger there. “Forgive me,” Grantaire whispers against Enjolras’ skin. He pulls the knife from its sheath, then turns and plunges it into the Witch.

She shrieks, and black blood spills into the water like oil, like ink.

Grantaire lets the knife fall and braces for the twisting pain of the transformation. Beside him, Enjolras swears, and then catches him around the waist and _pulls_. He drags Grantaire towards the surface like he’d dragged him away from it once before, and Grantaire holds what breath he can, hoping it will be enough.

They break the surface together, and Grantaire draws in a gasping breath, treading water. He squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden dazzling glare of the sun after days spent in half-light.

When he can open his eyes again, he finds Enjolras looking him over, searching for any sign of injury. “Are you all right?”

He falters, unable to find his voice, and Enjolras reaches out to him, searching him for any sign of injury. His hand brushes Grantaire’s hip and finds what Grantaire had already realized.

“She didn’t—I’m still—I didn’t change back,” Grantaire says hoarsely. The pain that had accompanied the Witch’s first spell had never come, and he sweeps his tail beneath the water’s surface to stay upright. “Maybe she lied.”

“No. She never lies.”

“Or do you think the kiss...?” Grantaire asks, thinking of fairy tales.

“Not the kiss—the sacrifice,” Enjolras says reverently. “You were prepared to sacrifice yourself for me. There is power in that, a magic the Witch couldn’t counter.”

Grantaire is prepared to accept that, but what he had done to gain that power is another matter. “I killed her,” he said. “I didn’t know I could—I never thought...” His hands are shaking; he sinks down below the surface as if to hide them, but Enjolras only follows him, catching Grantaire’s hands in his own.

“You did it to save your life, and mine as well.”

“Yours?”

Enjolras gives him a faint half-smile. “Once she had the throne, I would be no more than an obstacle for her. She would have found a way to rid herself of me, and her power would have been complete.”

It does make Grantaire feel a little better, to hear it put that way. “But now she can’t help you reach out to the humans,” he says. “And neither can I.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “We will find another way. For now, it’s enough that you’re alive, and we are no longer beholden to the Witch.”

“Oh, no—the necklace!” In their headlong rush to the surface, they had left it behind. Grantaire pulls away and dives down in search of it, but Enjolras catches up to him, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder before he’s made it a fathom.

“If the necklace survived the Witch’s death, we can recover it. But first, I would finish what we began.”

“Finish—what?” Grantaire echoes.

Enjolras smiles, sweet and sly. “Come here,” he says, “and I’ll show you.”

 

It is a very long time before they return for the necklace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who waited so long for me to finish this story. Originally it was only 3 parts, and Grantaire was supposed to wake up on the shore after the storm. Everything changed after I saw weisbrot's incredible [merling-Enjolras art](http://weisbrot.tumblr.com/post/138612066668/merling-enjolras-totally-took-my-heart-by-storm)\--I realized that the necklace was Important, and that there was more to the story.
> 
> So thanks again for reading. I'm on tumblr [here](http://thelibrarina.tumblr.com), if you want to say hello!


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